Impersonal Space
by hoarfrosted
Summary: Kurt values the luxury of being comfortable in his own home. Sam enjoys the innate ability to get under Kurt's skin. Eventually, their opposing positions lead to an impasse. Warnings for language and sexual content.


**Title:** Impersonal Space

**Characters/Pairings:** Kurt/Sam

**Spoilers:** None

**Rating:** NC-17

**Warnings:** Language and sexual content (including body hair fixation and sensory stimulation).

**Word Count:** 8000+

**Summary:** Kurt values the luxury of being comfortable in his own home. Sam enjoys the innate ability to get under Kurt's skin. Eventually, they come to an impasse.

**Author Note:** Seeing Sam and Kurt interact in _Dance with Somebody _gave me a new perspective on their relationship, which is coolsies. Written for a prompt on the GKM. The relationships of Sam/Mercedes and Kurt/Blaine are ambiguous to nonexistent here, so no real infidelity. Takes place during or after 3x17, _Dance with Somebody_, I don't know.

**Disclaimer:** I don't claim jack-diddly.

* * *

In the relatively cozy Hudson-Hummel home, there are exactly four bathrooms.

While initially this fact may not seem significant, with four occupants in the house plus one long-term guest, the number eventually becomes an issue for Kurt.

The first bathroom is connected to the master bedroom and thus rightfully belongs to his father and Carole – his father argues that _every_ bathroom belongs to him until someone else pays the mortgage, but Kurt doesn't really factor in "legal ownership".

The second is located in the upstairs hallway directly across from Kurt's bedroom. After hours of debating and outlining the defining bylaws of "first come, first serve" with his step-brother, Kurt claims that bathroom as his own. It's conveniently close to his room, the walls are an opaque eggshell color and easy to paint over should he decide to redecorate, and most importantly, it has a _bathtub_ perfect for long soaks in sandalwood bath beads accompanied by the soundtrack of _Anything Goes_ repeating in his ear.

The third is on the second level in the main hall leading to the front door, and Finn begrudgingly accepts that one as his. Kurt doesn't understand Finn's affliction with the location when his room is located on the second level anyway, but Kurt also doesn't care enough to question it.

The final bathroom is in the basement, pitch black and deathly silent and sometimes littered with spiders. No one uses it.

When Sam Evans moves into the guest room between the master bedroom and Kurt's bedroom, he doesn't disturb the order of things, for which Kurt is – or _was –_ thankful.

Sam is humble and appreciative; the kind of house guest who you have to force second portions of dinner on until he concedes, and who offers to do laborious chores in his free time when a certain lazy, lumbering oaf slacks off on his duties, and who leaves his suitcase and gym bag mostly packed, as if he expects to be expelled at any moment.

Sam never questions why he's barred access from the bathroom two steps away from his room and forced to go downstairs to share one with Finn–

Well, he doesn't question the restriction, but he doesn't exactly _adhere_ to it either, not completely, because, while Sam is both humble and appreciative, he's also sort of annoying – at least, when it comes to Kurt, sort of like the little brother Kurt's never wanted.

No, Kurt's not paranoid. Not really.

When it's his father, Carole or Finn watching the television in the family, Sam is content with sitting down at any available space and watching quietly, maybe making an idle comment here and there if it's related to sports or lasers or whatever. When Kurt alone decides to tune into a heartbreaking film centering on an Olympic gymnast with a broken ankle and subsequently broken dreams, Sam doesn't mind lifting Kurt's legs from the couch – strategically placed to prohibit company – and taking up the space with Kurt's legs in his lap, his whole demeanor screaming that he _belongs_ there, and he talks throughout the entire movie, asking inane questions and providing unwanted voiceovers for every character, each with different accents and voice pitches, and doesn't let up no matter how much Kurt glowers and threatens him.

It might be because Kurt threatens him around wheezing laughter, so he doesn't _sound_ threatening, or it might be because Sam is a jerk. Kurt blames Sam for the way he laughs at the gymnast falling from her perch on the balance beam, but Sam's voice went into surprisingly pitchy sobs and, well.

When anyone else is washing used dishes after dinner and Sam offers his assistance, he does so without error and without distraction and the kitchen is always left cleaner. When it's Kurt's turn to wash the dishes and Sam offers his assistance, the kitchen transforms into a battleground, since Sam has a penchant for covering Kurt's face – the tip of his nose, the shells of his ears, his chin and his cheeks – with white suds for some strange reason, and Kurt has a penchant for _not_ having harsh basic agents rubbed into his delicate skin. Their opposing stances usually result in battles with suds, dish towels and the sink hose used as ammunition until Carole breaks them up with a disapproving frown, telling them "the fun is over."

Kurt doesn't consider it "fun" when his cardigan is soaking wet and his hair droops down his forehead in clumps and Sam has the nerve to _grin_ at him. And if anyone claims that Kurt is the one laughing loudest during their water fights, he'll heatedly deny it.

When anyone else uses the phone, Sam isn't interested in the conversation or who's on the other end in the least, happy to leave the room and give the phone call privacy. When Kurt uses the phone in _his_ room, whether it's for a call or texting, Sam appears out of thin air and flops onto Kurt's bed, curiosity palpable in the way he leans over Kurt's shoulder with his chin nestled into Kurt's neck, giving suggestions for what to text next – no, Kurt will _never_ message Artie with the suspiciously phallic emoticon Sam suggests – or offering simplistic views during phone calls with Tina when Kurt puts the receiver on speaker phone. Kurt glares whenever he does. Sam argues that he'll find out eventually since they have the same friends.

It's rude and invasive and inappropriate on ten different yet _equally_ aggravating levels, especially since Sam never leaves until he deems it necessary. Of course, Kurt never actually _tells_ him to leave, not in so many words, but that's not the issue.

The issue is that someone's knocking on the door to _his_ bathroom on the morning before school while he's busy treating the impending blackheads on his face with a newly purchased facial cleanser, the scent in the air fresh and natural – pomegranate and lemon and hibiscus. It's not Carole's soft knocks, nor is it his father yelling through the door, and it's not Finn simply barging in, so Kurt knows which housemate is interrupting him.

He frowns into his reflection in the mirror. "Unless you're here to tell me there's a fresh hazelnut cappuccino waiting for me on my vanity, leave me be, Sam," he calls through the door. "I'm in the middle heavy bacterial maintenance."

There's a pause before Sam responds, "Is 'heavy bacterial maintenance' Kurt code for hair washing?"

"Washing my face, Sam. We've been over this," Kurt rolls his eyes and switches on the cold tap, ducking his head to splash cool water over his face.

"Oh, right, I knew that. So it's all right if I come in then?"

Had Kurt been less immersed in the tingling sensation of cold water chilling his newly cleansed pores, he would've shouted a firm "No" or locked his door or anything more preventative than apparently acquiescent silence. When he switches off the tap and reaches for a towel to dry his face – one that _should_ be hanging from the door rack – he instead grabs a handful of unfamiliar fabric, too thin and coarse to be one of his soft towels and _way_ too warm. He's still blinking water from his eyes so he can't really see, but when he reaches further into the fabric and feels something both firm and emanating a ridiculous amount of heat, he knows what it is.

Kurt retracts his hand from Sam's stomach and frowns, droplets of chilling water dripping down his neck and into his mauve robe. "Could you hand me my towel?" he requests with faux levity.

"Sure," Sam says easily and, after a bit of rustling, pushes a towel into Kurt's waiting hand.

Kurt pats his face dry and breathes calmly, evenly. He's not going to lose his temper and curse at Sam, nor is he going to resort to physical violence by shoving Sam out of his bathroom. Sam is a guest, and Kurt isn't rude to guests. When Kurt opens his eyes, Sam doesn't look guilty or embarrassed or mischievous, but both innocent and patient, qualities Kurt has come to expect from him regularly.

It cools his irritation somewhat, but not enough to keep his tone pleasant. "_Why_ are you in my bathroom?"

Sam looks rightfully fearful. "Uh, just need a place to shave really quick, if that's all right." He lifts his hand to show his razor, shaving cream and aftershave held haphazardly in one large hand. "I'll even clean out the sink when I'm done."

Kurt isn't really paying attention to whatever Sam is saying, because for the first time since Sam entered his bathroom, Kurt _looks _at him without the blur of water in his eyes or his own juvenile irritation, and he doesn't actually recognize the person in front of him.

Sam – the Sam _he_ knows – is surprisingly hygienic, despite the similarities between he and Finn and the negative preconceptions Kurt had about him, thankfully proven wrong. Unlike Finn, Sam never looks like he's only recently rolled out of bed in the mornings before breakfast. He's always freshly showered and wearing clothes that Carole forcefully washes for him, and his hair, though permanently unkempt, is parted and combed. It's odd when the rest of the family, besides Kurt, are still in various states of undress, and it's possibly another consequence of Sam not exactly feeling like the family everyone considers him to be, but Kurt doesn't want to delve too far into his personal issues without consent.

The Sam in front of him _now_, standing in the threshold of his bathroom, is different, so different that Kurt has to grip his towel to keep himself grounded. The Sam in front of him has short blond spikes of hair that are mussed up and sticking out in every which way, and has light red blotches and sleepy wrinkles around his squinting eyes, and is wearing a rumpled white undershirt half tucked into basketball shorts. Most noticeably to Kurt's appraising eyes, the Sam in front of him has a layer of coarse, fiery amber hair around his mouth and over cheeks and under his chin.

Kurt has imagined more than a dozen scenarios similar to this for his future; waking up early on a day that promised to be hectic with his partner – his _husband _–and he preparing in the bathroom, dancing around each other with innate symmetry, both disheveled and exhausted and harried. It's an image that may only be romantic to him, but it's something he wants. He looks at Sam, who surpasses the vague silhouette of the man in his deceptive imagination – a shadow that Blaine doesn't really fit into, especially after recent events – and suddenly everything is _too_ intimate when it shouldn't be, and Sam's presence in _his_ bathroom is too intimate when it shouldn't be.

Kurt assures himself that he's not paranoid.

"And what happened to the bathroom downstairs?" Kurt asks and slings his towel over the door rack, eyes ignoring Sam's existence. "Finn didn't break the sink faucet again, did he?"

"Nah, but…" Sam scratches at the crown of his head inelegantly, tousling more of his hair, "…he's using it right now."

Kurt crosses his arm and cocks an eyebrow. "We have at least forty-five minutes before we have to leave. Why can't you wait for him to finish?"

"Kurt," Sam gives him a serious gaze, making Kurt wonder if he's going to share some sinister secret of his. "Finn's _using_ the bathroom," he speaks gravelly.

Catching his meaning easily, Kurt grimaces, knowing he can't subject Sam to any part of that. "We have a bathroom in the basement that's…more than accommodating," he lies with only the smallest pause, knowing full well that the basement bathroom is covered in a blanket of dust from neglect.

Sam blanches and shakes his head childishly. "No way, dude." Then, Sam's face morphs into something dramatically intense and his voice drops an octave. "Who knows what _evil_ lurks in the hearts of men's basements?"

"I'm pretty sure you're quoting a movie I've never heard of," Kurt says dismissively.

The disappointment in Sam's frown passes quickly. "I tried going down there once but Finn told me there's like, ghosts rattling chains and moaning and stuff. And spiders _this_ big," Sam holds his hands apart to demonstrate, only the size he's implying ridiculously large. The exaggeration is already irrationally adorable, but the way Sam's stubble ages his face a couple of years makes it even more endearing.

That thought makes Kurt want to shove Sam out immediately since there are enough appealing things about Sam without him surreptitiously adding onto the pile, but Kurt isn't rude, so he settles for crossing his arms. "We don't live in an Australian outback, Sam, so our spiders grow normally here, and if ghosts existed, I doubt they'd spend their unlimited leisure time rattling chains in people's basements. Honestly, I don't know which of you two has the more active imagination."

Sam grins sleepily, kind of like he wants to accept that title. The corners of Kurt's lips twitch. "If it's not scary to you, will you go down there with me?" he asks.

"You're serious," Kurt deadpans, giving Sam a flat look. Sam nods, tossing his hair around more. "Do you really need me to hold your hand like a child?"

"That'd be cool," Sam nods again. Kurt blinks, struck by the frank acceptance when he'd expected denial, and now he wonders how it would feel to hold Sam's hand, large and warm and calloused from strumming guitar strings and manual labor and football, and he wonders how the sensation would compare to Blaine's hands, only slightly rough and artificially darkened.

"_Or_ you could let me use your bathroom. It'd be faster and less dangerous." Sam's low voice breaks Kurt from the phantom sensations against his palm and reminds him that he's _not_ alone and that he probably shouldn't fantasize about his _friend_ when they're in the same area.

Kurt looks to Sam's face pensively, noting the tilted smile and the glittering jade eyes and the strands of golden hair along his face that glint like expensive trinkets in the morning sunlight filtering through the window, begging Kurt to pay full attention to them, and Kurt knows that Sam won't be leaving his bathroom anytime soon. What he doesn't know – or pretends not to know – is whose resolve crumbles first.

He still has to dress and style his hair and they're running out of time, so he only makes a small show of annoyance when he huffs in concession. "Make sure you clean every trace of your intrusion out of that porcelain when you're done," Kurt says in an unveiled threat and gestures to his sink.

Sam chokes out in sudden laughter, sudden enough to worry Kurt, before beaming, content with keeping his humorous thoughts to himself. "Sure, promise." Sam steps into the bathroom fully, grin plastered on his face, until he stops right in front of Kurt, nose crinkling slightly. Then, Kurt can hear him sniffing the air – kind of like the puppy Tina believes him to be – and making small, curious noises. Or maybe they're pleased noises?

It's all Kurt can do to not outright call Sam a weirdo. Instead, he calmly asks, "Should I be worried about you right now, Crab?"

"What's that smell?" Sam sniffs the area around, eyes narrowed in focus. Kurt takes a step back, ready to hurry Sam along with his shave, when he realizes what the scent in the air is.

"Lemons?" Kurt questions. Sam's face scrunches in concentration and he hums his affirmation. "Facial cleanser," Kurt taps his left cheek for unneeded emphasis. "I was using it before you invited yourself in, remember?"

Sam leans forward until he's near Kurt's face – _in_ Kurt's space – and inhales deeply, eyes closed and smile serene, and it's really weird for Kurt to stand and allow the invasion, weirder than it is for Sam to be sniffing him like a interested golden retriever, but Sam is _so_ close that Kurt can see every individual fiber of hair growing along his jaw-line, and Kurt doesn't want to risk opening his mouth for any reason when there rests an incredibly aberrant request to rub his palms against Sam's face waiting to tumble from his lips in an embarrassing heap.

Instead, he waits for Sam to get his fill, even though their time is running thin and his fingers are twitching with the effort it takes _not_ to grope Sam's face, until finally Sam straightens and grins dreamily. "Smells good."

Kurt doesn't respond verbally, just gives a tight, humoring sort of smile while Sam turns to the sink and sets down his shaving supplies. There are multiple reasons why Kurt should leave, namely time constraints and giving privacy, but his eyes are fixated dangerously on Sam's face and Sam hasn't said a word and, well, it's _his _bathroom, he's not required to leave for anyone else! That in mind, Kurt crosses his arms defiantly and watches the end of an abrupt fetish–

Or what _should _be the end, but Sam has taken to being thoroughly, unapologetically, irreproachably _frustrating_, so it's not really a surprise when Sam presses the pump of his shaving gel and only receives a small, mocking dollop. After an impatient grunt, Sam presses the pump with more force several times, but his effort is wasted, as Kurt has already figured out.

It's kind of how his luck works out, torturing and all.

"Uhh…" Sam drawls out in that nervous way of his, like when he's afraid of seriously pissing Kurt off. He hasn't yet and probably never will, but Kurt doesn't plan on giving him that security. Holding out his hand and grinning sheepishly, Sam says, "I kinda ran out of shaving goop."

"I see that," Kurt tilts his toward the abandoned shaving gel container.

"Have any I could borrow? Well, not borrow, but, y'know."

Kurt looks at Sam, who manages to look the part of an earnest child even with his height and facial hair, and then Kurt looks to the mirror over the sink, where he knows there's a cabinet filled with essential toiletries, including a half-filled container of high-quality shaving gel, perfect for Sam's grade of hair. He purses his lips at Sam's reflection, a perfect view of Sam's rugged new profile.

"No," he lies, turning back to Sam with an unwavering gaze. He feels somewhat apologetic when Sam's face falls, so he adds, "Don't worry, you look…great. You look great."

"Really? You think I look good?" Sam appears pleasantly surprised by the assurance, an unexpected reaction until Kurt remembers certain things, like how Sam basically lives in their school's weight room, even after football practice, and how Sam never likes to eat much of dinner when it's not a healthy meal that Kurt meticulously prepares, and how Sam smiles when a gag about his cushy lips is made in show-choir practice, usually by Santana, but his wide smile doesn't reach his eyes, not _really_.

Kurt wonders how often Sam gets complimented. "No, I said you look _great_," Kurt smiles. "I'm sure there's a garish Western-themed Abercrombie and Fitch magazine spread somewhere that you'd be perfect for." When he receives a blank stare in return, Kurt explains, "That's a good thing."

"Oh, awesome," Sam beams and runs his hand over his chin, something Kurt _needs_ him to stop doing when sound of Sam's rough hands against stubble sends uncomfortable tingles down Kurt's arms. "I'll go cowboy today then. Saddle up, wrangle me some cattle, shoot up some outlaws. That's how we do it in the Wild West," Sam says with an impressive Southern accent, tipping his nonexistent hat.

"I'm not sure whether you're a ranch hand or the bowlegged sheriff in a John Wayne film, but we don't have time to discuss it," Kurt says and ushers Sam out the bathroom, knowing he's wasted too much time staring and they'll probably be late for school.

––

For one and only one instant, Kurt is thankful for not sharing any classes with Sam.

He manages to avoid thinking about Sam and _looking _at Sam during the commute to school, mostly; Sam sits in the backseat and likes to pull funny faces whenever he catches Kurt's eye in the rear-view mirror. Finn's presence helps him abstain from distracting thoughts, as does the general need to stay on the left side of the road.

In class, however, while his Biology teacher drones on about the water vascular system of echinodermata, Kurt can't help the way his mind wanders to thoughts of Sam, thoughts he's kept bottled up and stowed away since his junior year, since Sam showed interest in girls. Typically, straight guys didn't like being ogled by other guys – if the mistrustful jeers from his testosterone-laden peers were any hint – and Sam is Kurt's friend, one of the very few male friends Kurt has and _isn't_ annoyed by, so he has always been inclined to respect Sam and never fantasize.

But Sam's appearance is so very different from last year that it almost seems unfair, with his skin bronzed and reddened from the harsh Tennessee sun and stretched tautly over muscle that pulses with every move, and his hair short and darkened from the shaggy citric acid-treated locks Kurt had grown fond of, and his hips loose and gyrating so wickedly that Kurt has to force himself to look away, and his stubble–

Good lord, _his stubble_.

Never before had Kurt been affected by facial hair on _any_ of the boys he's had feelings for, not when he usually found it grungy and unbecoming of any sanitary male. Finn's facial hair grows in patchy and uneven in a way that makes him resemble a homeless man. Blaine's grows in full and curly like his product-free hair, and Kurt would make a reference to a gypsy were he not afraid of bruising his Blaine's self-confidence. Sam's…

Sam's facial hair makes Kurt want to throw a cowboy hat on him and watch him "wrangle some cattle" for hours in the blazing sun. It doesn't _sound_ provocative in his ears, but in his head…

Kurt doesn't know how he manages to quell his groan in the middle of class when he pictures actually touching Sam's chin, grazing his fingernails over it. He feels grimy for using Sam's image and his face is hot with an unattractive blush, but how can he help himself when he can almost _feel_ the Sam's facial hair scratching against his palms and burning into his skin like the conspicuous brands of so many iniquitous deeds – deeds he wants commit over and over again?

Needless to say, Kurt spends most of the school day half-hard in his jeans, thanking his choice of thigh-length sweater for the coverage.

He really doesn't want to look at Sam at all during afternoon show-choir rehearsal; he feels the need to apologize ten times over, and he doesn't need further torture, not now. Blaine is sitting on the lowest tier next to Mercedes, not that Kurt really wants to sit next to either of them today, not with guilt of mental infidelity gnawing at his stomach lining, so he gives them smile before hopping up to the right corner seat, surrounded by empty chairs and trying his damnedest to emanate an aura of "fuck off".

Sam enters the room slapping Puck on the back and Kurt's gaze snaps forward to the whiteboard, but it's too late. He's already gotten a fresh image of Sam – long-sleeved plaid button-up with a generic forest green crew neck underneath, acid-washed jeans and worn sneakers, clothes that match his new rugged appearance.

When the bell rings and the chair to Kurt's left creaks under someone's weight, Kurt _knows_ Sam is sitting next to him. Fate exists only to torture him.

Ten minutes into rehearsal and Kurt is rigid in his seat, legs and arms crossed primly and eyes trained on Mr. Schuester, though he hasn't heard a word the man has said. He's too busy keeping himself under control, digging his fingers into his arm so his eyes don't stray to the left and his blood doesn't stray southward. He doesn't even offer a benign heckle or encouragement when Rachel interrupts their coach and commandeers the floor, mostly because he doesn't have any clue of her motives.

It isn't long before Sam notices the tense behavior. Kurt feels the nudge at his side pleading for his attention, but he ignores it, hoping Sam will take the indistinct hint. He doesn't; Kurt feels the nudging again, more insistent and deliberately bothersome them before.

Kurt knows he can't ignore Sam for long once he's caught onto the scent of distress, else Sam would assume he was the cause of it. He doesn't turn to Sam, but he leans over and whispers, "What?" tersely from the side of his mouth.

Sam's chair creaks and he responds, closer to Kurt's ear than need be – Kurt's need that is. "You all right?"

"I'm perfectly fine, never been better. Why do you ask?" Kurt returns, wanting to cringe at the obvious forced cheer in his voice.

If Sam notices, he doesn't call attention to it. "'Cause you kinda look like you won a staring match with Medusa."

"That's an awkward simile to make," Kurt smiles, eyes absentmindedly following Santana when she stands to confront Rachel, hands placed on her hips and in position to insult. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

"You don't _look_ fine," Sam presses in earnest fervent, just how one would expect from him, an honest friend who would never do something as disgusting as using another friend's image for perverted purposes

It makes Kurt feel worse, and it probably shows on his face. "As grateful as I am for that compliment, I _am_ fine," he says before sitting upright in his seat, hoping the interrogation will end there.

He almost believes that it has, watching Rachel and Santana bicker with mild curiosity while Artie and Puck whoop obnoxiously in the background, until his vision starts to glide noticeably, and he has the strange sense of vertigo, and then he discerns that his chair is sliding oh-so-slowly to the left. Kurt's gaze drops, where he sees a hand wrapped around the leg of his chair, then rises to follow the hand's owner, who's staring forward in complete innocence.

Kurt belatedly realizes his error when he can't force himself to look away from Sam's jaw, which makes it difficult for him to scold Sam or _stop_ him. By the time he gains the bearings to ineffectively slap Sam's arm from his chair, they're pretty much joined together. "What do you think you're doing?" he hisses.

"You still mad at me for using your bathroom?" Sam questions with the lilt of unwarranted guilt and a troubled expression. Kurt rolls his eyes; _of course_ Sam would assume he was at fault from someone else's indistinctly disgruntled disposition. If he didn't know better, Kurt would assume Sam already knew of his wandering fantasies and wanted to make him uncomfortable.

"Don't be silly, I was never angry with you." Sam doesn't look convinced so Kurt continues with a placating smile, "Emergencies happen, don't worry. It's not like it's a regular occurrence, and you managed not to damage anything. No harm, no foul."

Sam nods thoughtfully as if he accepts the answer, but he still hasn't let go of the chair, so Kurt figures he has more to say. In the front of the room, Kurt can hear Mr. Schuester attempting to break up the verbal quarrel between Rachel and Santana, but it doesn't sound like he's succeeding.

Just when Kurt's ready to participate in spectating with the rest of the club, Sam asks, "If it's not me, then why're you all stiff? Something else bugging you?"

'_Yes. You,' _is the first answer that comes to mind, but Kurt refrains. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

Sam frowns immediately, and Kurt remembers that his customary dismissive answer isn't something Finn, Mercedes and Sam take lightly, not after certain events. "Kurt, if someone's on your back again–"

"_No_, no, I swear it's nothing like that. I…," Kurt starts, but he doesn't have a good excuse to give to someone who he can't avoid for the rest of the day. "…I'll tell you when we get home, all right?"

"Promise?"

"Yes, Sam, I promise."

After a moment of silent mulling, Sam nods. Kurt estimates that he has at least an hour and ten minutes to fabricate a cogent tale for his tense behavior, or maybe, if he's so lucky, Sam will forget and he won't have to lie about the unfortunate presence of his libido.

The latter option doesn't seem likely since Sam's protective grip on the chair leg is as iron as ever. It doesn't make much sense for Sam to keep him anchored despite the end of their conversation, but Sam doesn't seem to find any problem in it, his attention to the front of the room…where Rachel and Santana are belting out high notes with linked arms and wide smiles.

Forgetting the weirdness, Kurt turns focus on the pair. What exactly did he miss?

––

Sam doesn't bring up the issue for the rest of rehearsal, nor does he bring it up during the drive home. In fact, most of the day passes without Sam giving any indication that he remembers the planned discussion – not while watching television, not during dinner, not at all. Kurt would consider it a merciful blessing if it didn't also mean that he didn't get to really _interact _with Sam at all, unless being asked to pass whole-grain bread rolls across the table was considered interaction.

It's a conflict of interests within Kurt between his heart, which values Sam's friendship and pathetically misses Sam after a single day, and his dick, which really wants to feel Sam's stubble scratch and burn his inner thighs until they're red and raw. Kurt isn't shallow – not _really_ – so he knows his heart is right as usual, but when his hearts beats erratically in Sam's presence, Kurt's not sure who to trust.

He's still not paranoid. Mistrust of one's internal organs was normal.

It isn't until the late evening, long after Kurt declared himself safe, that Sam re-emerges – while Kurt's in his bathroom again, of all places.

He's only just finished drying his face off and has his fingers dug into a jar of opaque base cream when a familiar, ominous knock to his door interrupts him. Kurt groans, shaking excess cream back into the jar and covering it before opening the door with his free hand, greeting Sam's smiling face in the shadows of the hallway with an unamused frown. "You seriously couldn't wait until I finished?" he brandishes his fingers, coated white and curled threateningly.

"Well, you take _hours_ to finish and I'm getting kinda sleepy," Sam says, digging the heel of his hand into his eye. "What's that gunk?"

"Do you really care?" Kurt asks. Sam shrugs in response, which means he doesn't really. "No one's stopping you from going to bed, you know. We can have our own special lady chat at a more reasonable hour some other day." Or never, if Kurt could avoid it long enough.

"No, I'm good," Sam nods and sidesteps Kurt, entering the bathroom _without_ permission. Again.

Kurt keeps his frown aimed in the hallway cautiously; when his view of Sam was obscured in the shadows, Kurt could pretend there was nothing different about him or his damned face. He isn't sure how much self-control he has in situations like these, but from the way his fingers are trying to crush the doorknob, he doesn't think he has much. "It really isn't a big deal, Sam. Nothing to lose sleep over."

"You promised you'd tell me when we got home, and we're home now. So, spill."

"…all right, then." Kurt shuts the door slowly before padding over to the sink to wash his hands, making sure to keep his gaze low to avoid getting a glance of Sam's night wear. He has enough to fuel without tangible representation. He switches on the faucet and starts with, "I'm not sure what to say, exactly," and he means it, because he hadn't come up with anything while he thought he was in the clear.

"Just tell me what's wrong. Is anyone bugging you?" Sam asks.

"No, stop worrying about that. I'm not really a special case anymore."

"You told me you killed your NYADA audition, so that can't be bothering you. Is it Blaine again?"

Kurt considers using relationship problems as an out, but he doesn't want to involve Blaine in his lie, not when there's the possibility of lingering hostility between Blaine and Sam. He shakes head silently, turning off the faucet and letting his hands drip in the sink. Sam is somewhere behind him near his towel, too risky to turn around.

That resolve lasts twelve seconds, right about the time he feels the weight of Sam's hand on his shoulder through his robe with a firmly spoken, "Kurt, why won't you tell me?"

He doesn't know why that sets him off, but suddenly Kurt's irritated – irritated with Sam's endearing obliviousness and unintentional appeal, irritated with his treacherous desires unleashed after more than a year of containment, irritated with the entire day he spent on the precipice of acting out his fantasies. Kurt whips around and scowls into Sam's unflappably caring eyes, deep and green, a color that has lurked in the forefront of Kurt's mind all day, and he grits out words he's been denying for hours.

"Because it's _your _fault!"

That outburst gives him only a small amount of relief – finally off his chest! – before the remorse sets in. The caring in Sam's eyes is replaced by shock, confusion, and most prevalent, _hurt_, so Kurt's quick to amend with, "I just, I mean – it's not _you_, it's your face."

Sam's face scrunches in confusion, which is a better alternative, so Kurt feels like less of an asshole. "What's wrong with my face?" Sam reaches up to skim his fingers over his cheeks, trying to find something amiss.

Kurt shakes his head and grabs Sam's wrist, pulling it away from its examination. "Stop it, nothing's wrong your face. That's actually the problem." Sam's expression doesn't change, not even when his wrist is released, so Kurt continues a bit frantically. "I don't mean that in a bad way – it's my fault too. Well, it's mostly me and my slow relapse into the horrors of predatory homosexuality, what with wanting to grope your stupidly attractive stubble since this morning and everything and…oh my god, I'm probably going to be just like Sandy Ryerson when I'm his age, just a perverted old man who can't keep his libido in check and lusting after every straight male who looks at me for longer than two seconds with–"

"You wanna touch my face?" Sam's eyebrows rise in surprise – _pleasant _surprise.

The hell?

Kurt's positive that Sam missed vital information in his frenetic babbling, and he's not willing to further his embarrassment any more than necessary. He clutches his hands, which moved to gesture wildly at some point during his speech, to the front of his robe and tilts his chin up, keeping silent and proud. He's a Hummel, and Hummels accept their mocking with quiet dignity.

"You can if you want, not a big deal." Sam shrugs easily and turns to mirror, rubbing at the stubble under his chin. "Pretty sure you're the only one who likes this look. Mercedes said I look like a bum. She was joking, though…I think," he grins.

Silence is the only response he gives for a moment, then the scowl on his face is back in full force, because _really?_ "Are you serious?"

"Ha, yeah. She was like–"

"No no, not about that!" Kurt shakes his head in frustration. He'd been stressing about Sam's reaction just for Sam to write off his perversion as nothing, and that's strangely annoying. "How is this 'not a big deal' for you? You _do _understand what…," he pauses and lowers his voice, remembering that the rest of the house asleep, "…what I'm _implying_, don't you?"

Sam nods, "Yeah, I get you. I don't get why it made you all stiff in glee club, though…unless you had a bon–"

"_No!_" Kurt shrieks to interrupt him, then slaps his hand over his own mouth and curses his pitch. He speaks between his fingers, "I wasn't expecting you to react like this. I thought…"

"…that I'd be creeped out? Or that I'd freak out and hate you or something?" Sam supplies with a furrowed brow, tone flat and unfamiliar.

And then, Kurt understands the offended tone in Sam's voice; despite everything they'd been through over the years – privately and with the entire glee club – all the time they'd spent together in his home and in his _life_, and the way Sam has consistently treated him as friend and an equal since the moment they'd first shaken hands, Kurt still expected the worse from him on the sole basis of his sexuality, personality and contradictive past deeds taken completely out of the equation, and that presumption is downright insulting.

It's also funny in an ironic sort of way, but Kurt doesn't laugh. "I would've never thought the poorly designed discriminatory shoe would be on the other foot in billions of years, but…I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, dude," Sam grins toothily, and Kurt can tell he means it, so he returns the smile.

The silence that follows is somehow simultaneous comfortable and tense, with Kurt tightening the belt of his robe, wary of showing too much skin, and Sam looking up to the ceiling – the vent maybe? – for some unknown reason. Kurt doesn't know what to say to put an end to it. Luckily, Sam does. "Uh, if it makes you feel better, I kinda like smelling you."

It's definitely hypocritical of him after what he revealed only minutes earlier, but he can't help the judgment in his voice or his peculiar expression when he says, "Excuse me?"

"Hey, I'm not weird," Sam pouts. Kurt bites his lip to keep from replying. "That lemony face stuff you use smells, like, _really_ good, and you always use expensive cologne and all those creams and soaps and lotions and…yeah, you smell good."

By the time Sam's finished, Kurt's expression has morphed into curiosity. He's grown too accustomed to the smells that surround him on a daily basis to actually sense them anymore, and learning that Sam is drawn to them brings up more questions. "So, earlier in the choir room when you wouldn't let go of my chair, that wasn't just you having boundary issues?"

"It was either that or stealing your sweater." Sam shrugs, "I think I chose the less bizarre one."

"I appreciate your restraint."

Sam gives him another smile, "All in a day's work, good sir. So, you still want to?"

Kurt knows what he's talking about without clarification. He'd been hoping to avoid the appealing offer completely. He fiddles with the belt of his robe absently, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

There's a list of reasons Kurt wants to give, such as his lack of proper restraint, his pajama bottoms' poor ability to hide erections, or maybe the fact that he's in rocky, ambiguous relationship and touching other boys in intimate spaces was a bad idea. "Other than the debilitating awkwardness?"

Sam's lips quirk suspiciously, as if he expected the answer. "How 'bout we trade off weirdnesses then?" He gently grabs Kurt's left hand from its nervous fiddling and, when Kurt doesn't pull away immediately, brings the hand up to his jaw. "You can touch my face, and I get to smell you."

The protest Kurt has prepared dies on his lips in a dull puff of breath the instant his skin comes in contact with the coarse hair on Sam's jaw. It prickles against his palm and scratches at his finger pads in a way his imagination could only hope to emulate, sending little jolts of electricity through his arm. Kurt watches his own hand, foreign and disengaged, in fascination as it slowly trails up to Sam's sideburn and back down to the defined jut of his chin, fingernails scraping lightly against scruff, generating a sound that resonates deafeningly in his ears.

"Feels kinda nice," Sam exhales, making Kurt's gaze snap up to his. As impossible as sounds, Kurt kind of forgot Sam was there during his exploration. Sam's plush lips are open and rounded, and his eyes don't meet Kurt's, no, they're trained elsewhere on Kurt's body, but Kurt's too entranced to look away when _his_ fingers are sliding over Sam's stubble as if they belong there.

So focused on Sam's jaw is he that Kurt almost doesn't notice when Sam closes in on him, stepping up until his white undershirt ruffles against the folds of Kurt's robe, then he begins to lean in. Kurt stiffens and backs away an inch until the edge of the sink digs into his backside because Sam is _not_ suppose to be trying to kiss him and he's – scared? Blood rushes in his ears and his stomach tightens and flutters and drops all at once, but he doesn't turn away and _why_ isn't he turning away?

His apprehension is premature, however. When Sam is only a breath away, he veers off to the left, and Kurt sighs in relief and what he recognizes as _disappointment_, but he pushes that down and away; they're not _doing_ anything. Sam is close to him and taking in deep breaths near his ear with pleased exhales to follow, and Kurt's arm is bent so his palm lays flat against Sam's face, but they're not doing anything.

It sounds pretty convincing in Kurt's mind under the fine red haze every tingle in his hand adds to, so he doesn't panic when Sam presses their bodies close and scalds him with body heat, and he doesn't panic when Sam's hands grip the sink edge and traps his hips between strong forearms, and he doesn't panic when Sam's hip collides with his near-erection through the soft material of his pajama bottoms, or when he feels the one Sam is sporting against prodding at his own hip. They're not doing anything.

Kurt's hands begin to move, the right sliding up Sam's arm and setting on a broad shoulder, just beneath the strap of Sam's undershirt, and the left pushes Sam's head until the prickle of Sam's facial hair rubs into his jaw and down his neck. It stings, it _burns_, and Kurt hisses and groans, hips pushing out to seek friction against Sam's body.

"You like that?" Sam questions in his ear, voice low and thick and soft lips grazing Kurt's skin – not in the way Kurt expects in this situation after becoming accustomed to pornography, cocky and rhetorical, but genuine in inquisitiveness.

It makes Kurt want to smile. "Yeah," he answers in a foreign tone and nods needlessly. Sam takes it as a cue to further Kurt's newly discovered masochism, sliding his chin and his spit-slickened lips down Kurt's neck and collar bone and down to the dip of Kurt's robe. Kurt's body jerks and his right hand grips the back of Sam's neck desperately, knowing he can't physically have Sam any closer but dying for _more_.

Sam pauses at the top of Kurt's nightshirt, mouthing and sucking at the skin in the middle of his chest so intently that Kurt thanks the heavens for Sam's discretional choice of spot. Hands grip at Kurt's waist tentative before slipping down to the back of his thighs and deftly lifting him up onto the seat, and Sam fits himself between Kurt's legs. Kurt reluctantly releases Sam's jaw and settles back on his hand, knocking several items to the floor in his rush to find stability.

All movement stops and Sam detaches from Kurt's chest, waiting for the echoes of the loud clattering to fade. Kurt glances over the edge of the sink, making sure nothing spilled over, then he cranes his neck to look at himself in the mirror, one side of his face and neck marred with a distinctive trail of pink, Sam staring at him with clear intent. Kurt turns back to Sam, catching his low-lidded green irises. "You know we're making a mess, don't you?"

He knows Sam is smart enough to figure out exactly what he means, so he's a bit thrown off by the mirthful chuckle he receives. "Yeah, I know," Sam says, clumsily untying Kurt's robe. "We can clean up later."

With his mind less fogged and his constitution stronger, Kurt wants to argue some, tell Sam he isn't thinking with head anymore, but Sam's hands are faster than Kurt's mouth and sneak under his shirt and under his waistband, warm and rough, thumbs digging into his protruding hip bones. Sam holds Kurt's gaze as his hand moves, gliding over Kurt's thigh and against his stomach before taking a firm hold of his dick.

Kurt's eyes clench tightly and his nails dig into the back of Sam's neck, and his treacherous hips buck into Sam's fisted hand almost immediately. It takes him a moment of control, but he opens his eyes with a short breath, only to find Sam's face grinning at him cheekily, hand completely stilled around his cock. Kurt blushes hotly with embarrassment and scowls at him. Sam is undaunted by the irritation, squeezing around him leisurely, and Kurt has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. He doesn't have many options for retaliation and he _really_ wants Sam to move his hand again, so, using his grasp on Sam's neck for leverage, Kurt leans forward and shoves his hand down Sam's basketball shorts until he's far enough to wrap his fingers around Sam's cock.

It doesn't register in Kurt's mind that he's holding another man's dick with confidence he didn't know he possessed, especially not with Sam, heavy and silken and pulsing with heat between his fingers. He's too preoccupied with the Sam's face; the way the amusement is replaced by shock and lascivious bliss, how his lips fall open with a lengthy groan and his head tilts back, how his Adam's apple bobs around his stubble when he swallows thickly – Kurt doesn't even remember his half-constructed plan for vengeance. He feels powerful enough, watching Sam's expression change with the swipe of a thumb over the leaking head of his cock or a drawn out stroke from base to tip.

Sam's head falls before long, into the crook of Kurt's neck, mouthing and kissing with his lips, scraping with his teeth and his scruff. His hand tightens around Kurt and he resumes stroking, matching the pace of Kurt's hand fluidly. Both of them breathe heavily with the effort it takes to reign in their pleasured groans and furthering murmurs.

Neither of them last very long after dealing with pent up sexual frustration, but it's Sam who finishes first, Kurt is proud to say. Sam's nose buries into his shoulder with a muffled curse and Kurt feels Sam spill around his hand, thick and dripping down his fingers in glob. That's all he can remember before paints his own boxers white with a shuddering exhale. His hand slips out of Sam's shorts slickly when he comes to his senses, and maybe he takes his time to slide his fingers over Sam's lower stomach.

The air is tense following, or maybe it's just on Kurt's side, mind reeling with too many thoughts after being nothing but a blinding white blur seconds before. It's a heated clash in his mind between pride – at bringing another man to a cursing orgasm with only his hand, at not completely making a fool of himself – and fear, and fear has a clear advantage. No, not of Sam having a negative reaction, Kurt won't make that mistake that again, but he doesn't want Sam to feel uneasy around him, and he doesn't want to lose Sam as a friend.

Did that label still apply? Friends?

His eyes follow warily when Sam backs away, watching him look at his stained hand in interest, then grimace down at his shorts. "Damn, I think I need to change," Sam grumbles and shimmies his hips with discomfiture. Kurt shares the sentiment and laughs when Sam vainly tries to pull the front of his shorts away from his body.

He's definitely paranoid.

"You have to get rid of this now, I'm afraid," Kurt informs and takes hold of Sam's chin between his thumb and forefinger. He'll keep the image in his head for a while.

"Yeah yeah, I know," Sam pouts and turns to the door for a moment before facing Kurt with comically wide, hopeful eyes. "Uh, can I shave in here?"

Kurt hums his consent. "I don't see why not. You still have to get your own razor, but there's shaving gel in the mirror cabinet," he tilts his head toward the mirror.

"You said you didn't have any!"

"Little white lies," Kurt sings out when Sam frowns.

Sam pauses, licks his lips, then asks, "Hey, can I…_always_ shave in here?"

Considering marked recent factors, it seems almost cruel to bar Sam from his bathroom, and not only because he can see the poorly veiled implication behind Sam's question. The bathroom no longer has the atmosphere of somewhere that should remain private, not when he can strike the inadvertently offensive title of "guest" off of Sam's name. What was he thinking?

Kurt shrugs, and Sam grins brightly at him. "As long as you don't touch my bath beads, you can stay."


End file.
